


Lavender Blood

by GoldenHavoc



Series: October Dust [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Brother Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Comfort, Loki's first kill, Or does he, Pre-Canon, Sad, Teenager Loki, Teenager Thor, Thor is a good brother mkay, he doesn't take it well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 18:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16310084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/pseuds/GoldenHavoc
Summary: Fascinated, Loki stares at his hands and wonders about the lush shade of red shimmering in the torches’ glow.Paired with his otherworldly pale skin, there’s a contrast, repulsive and inappropriate, and yet containing a strange harmony only few combinations would manage to achieve. It’s so perfect, Loki almost feels frightened by it. But fright isn’t the most prominent sensation occupying his mind now, and maybe that‘s exactly the problem here.Because he’s beautiful, beautiful and irrevocable as death. And it only took death to stain him this way.Loki‘s 14 and earned his first kill barely two hours ago. He doesn't take it well.





	Lavender Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Whumptober prompts (which I'm way behind with but nyeh whatever *throws this at you*.
> 
> Prompt 2 : Bloody Hands

Fascinated, Loki stares at his hands and wonders about the lush shade of red shimmering in the torches’ glow.

Paired with his otherworldly pale skin, there’s a contrast, repulsive and inappropriate, and yet containing a strange harmony only few combinations would manage to achieve. It’s so perfect, Loki almost feels frightened by it. But fright isn’t the most prominent sensation occupying his mind now, and maybe that‘s exactly the problem here.

Gaze fixed, he dips his hands in the boiling hot water gathering in the washbowl, hypnotized as he watches the surface darken and gain the color of rose-petals long withered in the hue of a fazed out summer. Slowly, he forces his head up to look and meet his reflection in the bathroom mirror edged in gold as most mirrors in Asgard are.

Asgard, the golden kingdom. Neither age nor war could bring it to its knees. He’s been fed the stories of glory so long he actually believes that to be true.

And there is blood. Blood on his clothes. Blood on his throat and blood on his cheeks. Even his eyes are rimmed red and he’s completely at loss what to make of it while it eats into his senses like pitch gulped by fire.

He’s beautiful, beautiful and irrevocable as death. And it only took death to stain him this way.

He‘s 14 and earned his first kill barely two hours ago.

Loki doesn’t know what he should feel or is allowed to feel, hesitates to find out like he never did before. It wasn‘t planned, and he didn‘t intend to take a greater part in battle than usual. He was the one to observe the field, aid the wounded and make out the foe‘s strategy, offering information about potential weaknesses and shortages to the ones clever enough to lend an ear or two before rushing back into the fight.

This time, however, a Vanr shot straight towards him, axe raised in hand, a scowl on his face, screaming – he had to kill him, right? He could‘ve run, but when would a son of Odin ever run from a challenge? How could he even dare to think of flight? The shame would accompany him to his grave and beyond.

Closing his eyes, roaring images flicker in the dark plunge of his thoughts. 

_The surprised expression on the berserk’s face as Loki's dagger fluently cuts through the leather of his armor, shoved deep into his right ventricle as Sif had taught him months ago. The thick mixture of saliva and blood that swells out of the corners of his mouth and that Loki compares to nothing but the yellow-teethed foam of a rabid animal in heat._

_He sees the man fall to the ground like paper, shield, axe and sword clattering to his sides. His blank eyes stare into the void, at him, through him, at ever-waiting Hel with her half-smiling face. Loki listens to his own gasps, the harsh cacophony of his heartbeat so unbearably loud in the sudden stillness of the still-warm corpse. Hiccups of adrenalin rush through his veins. Behind him, his comrades yell and cheer. Fandral –_ **_Fandral_ ** _– whistles in appreciation. They call his name with weapons raised and then go back to cutting off the limbs of their next approaching enemy._

_He’s entered their circle now. Finally, official part of the group of the mighty Aesir, the warriors children dream of being protected by. But Loki doesn't cheer with them, isn’t able to. He looks at his hands while the fight around him evolves into the massacre it’s meant to be and can’t help but marvel at how the blood drips down his palms. How it glows in the fading light of Vanaheim’s spiraling sunset._

Loki blinks. And the present blinks back at him, red, red, **_red_**.

He takes his fingers out of the soiled water, examines them with more distant care than before. They’re still tainted, and terribly at that. He jams them back in and claws his nails into the basin’s blue-veined ceramic.

He breathes, in and out, repeating. Just like his mother told him to should he ever be in need of an anchor in a world catered by storms. The squelch of fabric and flesh followed by the choked up grunt as he put the knife in reverberates in his ears, aching for more than an anchor now, a force bigger than nature to bind him. Asgard isn’t made of storms, but it has born one, that much he knows. 

A dry sob rings through the cascade of his troubled mind, a faint echo in his private chambers. It won’t help. His pulse has become a charge, the oxygen in his lungs an outrage. Is he supposed to carry this knowledge all his life? His knees go weak at the thought of it, buckling under the weight of what he‘s done. Of what they expect him to likely do _again_.

What‘s wrong with him? Why can’t he drink and laugh and congratulate himself as the others do? The sons and daughters of Asgard were forged for killing, trained since youth. How could he ever hope they’d let this chalice pass him by, he with the royal blood?

The minute he opens his mouth for a whine, a scream, anything before the reality crushes him to bits, there are arms embracing him from behind and a body that presses flaty against his back and bony shoulders. A second heart that roars next to his, warm breath fanning over his neck, teasing, heavy. 

“Shhh,“ Thor murmurs. smiles at him from out the mirror, intentions honest and foolishly kind. And simple, so simple. “It‘s alright. I‘m here.“

Loki hates him. He’s the last person he wants to see when he feels weak. He’s the last person Loki wishes to be held by when there are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes like embers and he tries to keep them in with all his might.

And yet, he always seems to have a hunch when he’s just in that kind of situation, when his breaths turn to coughs, when he’s wailing inside and the world strips off every color he once held dear. Like a parasite patiently waiting for his former host to succumb to the walls he‘s built so it would slither back in through the cracks, wrap him tight and tall like an errant lover. Complete his misery due to feeding on it with care.

Thor is 17, tanned and his hair a golden canvas that touches down to his collarbone with forbidden delicacy. He still wears parts of the amor he wore in battle, a cut splitting his left brow that’s already healing. In the sparkle of his eyes,a bright blue sea curls for play. Loki adores these eyes as much as he despises the one carrying them. He loves them more than his life, as they’ve inherited the shade of his mother while he has not, but he’d never admit to any of this when asked. He's still young, but he's proud.

Thor's bristling skin nestles up against his cool flesh. Loki doesn't like body contact, never did, but he’s so desperately trying not to turn around, bury his face in his chest and sob out his wrath and confusion with fervor, it nearly tears him apart. Take a single touch so much as a graze and he becomes aware of his own vulnerability. Yet he couldn’t evade Thor if he tried as he cannot move, his limbs are numb. Hadn’t Thor caught him like this, he’d have already slid to the floor and crammed into a ball, shaking.

“How many have you killed?“ The question flees timidly from his lips. His voice sounds calm, but proves alarming in thinness. Thor notices, digs his nose questioningly into the curve of Loki's throat. Sparse stubble peppers his chin, first attempt at a beard **.** As many times before, Loki thinks he looks ridiculous. Besides, it’s itchy.

"I don't know anymore,' he says. "Maybe a hundred. Three hundred. I stopped counting long ago. You know I‘ve never been good with numbers like you.“

Loki nods. His attention falls back on the sink. His fingers might have shrivelled up by now. He can’t feel them, they might as well have deattached from the rest of his body.

“Have you ever thought about whether they had family? Siblings? A wife? ...Children?“

“Oh yes, all the time when I was about your age,“ confirms his brother all too fast, too enthusiastically. A bitter quirk runs up Loki’s mouth. His perfect big brother. Pride of the kingdom. Brave, fearless, ever helpful and praised. The legitimate heir to the throne. And an ever-terrible liar.

Loki shivers though he doesn’t feel cold. The grip around his waist tightens in reply, engulfes him. Drowns him.

He’s safe. And yet.

“You did well today, brother. The Vanyr are our enemy till father says otherwise. He’d have striked you down just as you did if you hadn't beat him to the task.“ A soft laugh brims through, guttural in tone as it drags through his throat. It‘s the sound Thor always makes when he‘s a little unsure, a little unprepared. “I’m glad nothing happened to you. Mother would’ve never forgiven me... and neither had I.“ Loki nods again. A mechanical gesture. He understands, always does, young as he is.

But there’s still the blood he can’t wash off. It’s everywhere.

“Will it go away?“ he asks. A lump barricades his windpipe. “Will this... feeling… end at some point?“

It takes a while till Thor finds the words to answer. Maybe he wonders if he should fib, attempt to.

“No,“ he says then, aware he‘s quick to destroy Loki's last hope, “but at some point it'll just… wane off. A stab that gets meeker the more often you do it, till you hardly feel its presence. All gets easier with habit.“

“What happens the day I can’t feel it at all anymore? If the stab stops occuring? Who will I be then?“

And this time, honest fear can be heard in Loki's voice. It has Thor sag in worry. His eyes wander to the hands of his little brother, lost in the water. Following an inspiration, he stretches out his own fingers, dips them in and embraces the white, slender hands with his coarse bronzen ones, holding them tight. His roughened fingertips glide in calm strokes over smooth skin.

He doesn’t see the blood. To him, Loki's appearance is as pure and neat as ever. He’s never been this pretty. He’ll never be, and that’s fine with him. True beauty would be a waste in battle.

“You’ll still be Loki, as you’ve always been,“ he mumbles, hiding his wavering stand behind big words as he‘s used to, as his father taught him. “And as long as I'm here, I’ll make sure to remind you who you are. I take care of you, yes? I’ll protect my little brother.“

For the first time since battle, a small, sad smile lodges into the corner of Loki's marble mouth.

“You can’t possibly protect me from everything. Also I’m not that little anymore, you dumb oaf.“

“I can try and yes you are,“ retorts Thor with utter conviction. “You’re tiny. Even your _fists_ are tiny. The Jotunn would serve them as tidbits on their plates.“

Loki’s smile grows fully across his lips and the action takes a visible load off Thor‘s mind. He deems it as a yes, and Loki doesn’t say otherwise. Doesn’t mean to.

As long as Thor is Thor, Loki will be Loki. There’s nothing else he could say. Nothing else he could do to refute it. Right?

Gently, Thor pulls his brother's hands out of the sink, – and notices to his shock that they’ve begun to scald in angry, fiery colors. Loki makes no sound as he curses and hurries to dry them with a corner of his cape, then makes him sit on the bed as he rummages the drawers for a healing stone. He audibly huffs in relief soon he finds one in the back corner.

Loki's smile remains unchanged. It also stays when, after brief persuasion, they go back to the feast together, joining the celebration that never needs a special reason to be given, taking place in the throne room merrily. There‘s no readable emotion in his eyes all evening.

What both don’t know yet is that Thor won’t be able to keep his promise, as he won’t be able to keep many others he makes to his brother over the course of years to come. Sometimes it’s his fault, sometimes it’s Loki’s; then again, it’s no one’s. Life, no matter how many hundreds of years they’re gifted with, just works that way.

The red on Loki‘s hands remains longer in his vision than his brother’s protection does, and soon enough the stab he was scared to endure blooms into something else entirely. The blood on his hands he was close to crying about as a kid starts to fill him with a sense of power, a treacherous, wondrous, wonderful self-control.

In the end, he doesn’t even question the fact that Thor’s cape has always been red to begin with, and that the color, awful in essence, would have him quiver alone at night as much as help find him in the crowd, on the battlefield, the sight of him soaked in a monster’s guts natural as hunger or sleep.

Much too late, when all is said and done, after he’s been left to fall and revive, he realizes with a jolt that he’s never regretted to have killed the Vanr to begin with, or the act of killing itself.

It was the knowledge that if the Vanr had come close enough to cut him, he’d have spilled his secret as well. That when he opened his own veins, trickles of unblemished blue would run over his skin, no crimson detected. He’d have been exposed to the world as an artificiality, a forge, a mask. An error stolen and nestled in the crook of a blindly-loving mother that was never his own.

And when they rush into their fight eons later, crazed and tragic and betrayed, his blood and Thor’s blood mingling, creating a tint of lavender on Midgard’s floor, all he does is laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: From what I’ve seen in the first Thor Movie, Jotun bleed blue blood when wounded so I took it from there. *waves and goes*


End file.
